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"A Wing
And A Prayer"
by =INK=
"A
Wing, A Prayer, Some Luck, More Luck, Even More Luck, Yet Still More Luck, No
Spontaneous GS Boots, and Then Some"
27 October 2000
Axis Vs. Allies Arena.
There I was, cruising through calm, bright, sunny skies, one hand on the stick
of my Messerschmitt 109 and the other on a cool bottle of Cherry Cola. I
was soaring through clouds, just enjoying the ride, free from the constraints of
worry. I was invincible! I was omnipotent! I was tanked up on
cola! I was...I was...
I was asleep in bed. Keyword: was.
I shook the sleep from eyes, or rather, it was beaten from them by a hard
bookcase. I pushed myself off the thickly carpeted apartment floor,
realizing slowly that I had once more fallen out of my bed. It seemed that
a lot of things were upside down since the British had successfully invaded the
Pas de Calais and thrust to the Seine River. Our armored divisions in
reserve in Belgium had successfully bridged the Meuse River and thrust
westwards, right through Ostend, Dunkirk, and on to Calais. We had retaken
all six bases of the Pas, but the British were still not defeated, as they held
a large airbase at Abbeville, just south of Calais. The strong Allied
Navies had been able to keep a supply route open despite horrendous losses at
the hands of our Stukageschwader and coastal artillery. I reflected both
on this situation and the enduring puzzle: "How many toe digits do mice
have?" as I cleaned up and rushed down the road to Boulougne Airfield.
I admired a column of Panzer IV tanks moving past a distant battery of huge 17
K18 artillery guns which were letting loose on Abbeville. The tanks
weren't the newest, but compared to anything the Allies had, they were still
very competent. As long as they could get to the battle zone unmolested by
Allied fighter-bombers, they would surely be of immense help in cutting the
Allied divisions off from sea borne supply. I noticed that two of the
Panzer IV tanks had a typical chassis but a very odd, angular turret arrangement
instead of a 75mm turret, and I asked the car's driver what on earth they were.
"Oh, those are Flakpanzers, as the British call them. We named them
'Whirlwind.' They're self-propelled antiaircraft vehicles, each mounting
four 30 millimeter cannon in the open-top turret. Even the four-engine
heavies will get flamed by a few hits from them!"
"Ah." I was impressed, to say the least, but the incorporation
of Whirlwinds into our armored columns could only mean that there was more than
a negligible threat to our tanks from the Allied Jabos.
The BMW pulled up to Boulougne airbase and I rushed over to the ready shack,
where a few pilots were talking about the morning's raids on Abbeville. An
adjutant rushed in shortly and said he needed all available 109F pilots...we
were mounting an attack with at least four Ju88 bombers and they needed cover.
Between currently unavailable pilots and limited planes, I was the only one.
I grabbed my flight goggles and rushed out with the adjutant.
"It's very simple," the uniformed lieutenant said as we hurried out to
the hangars. "All organization in this battle has fallen apart,
regardless of which side we're talking about. I've been able to get a few
bombers grouped up," he motioned to 4 Ju88s, the last of which was rumbling
down the strip at the time, "but at just the moment when we need fighters,
they're practically all out covering Stukas on a convoy raid! We've got
only four more fighter pilots here right now--you're one--but two of the
aircraft are undergoing critical repairs and calibration from yesterday's
strikes. You'll need to do the best you can, alone, but see if you can
join up with UF, our other 109 pilot, once you're airborne. Get those
bombers in to Abbeville!"
By now, we were up to my 109. I glanced lovingly at the yellow number 14
painted on the side, one ear on the adjutant, subconscious taking me through the
preflight routine, focus on the cherry cola supply in my plane. The
Daimler-Benz 601 engine was already warmed up, and as I was strapped into the
plane, one of my ground crew informed me that I had a bomb hooked onto the
underside of my plane. All ready fighters had taken one, and they had not
had time to remove it before the scramble order.
"Drop it if you have to," he shrugged, "but if you can put it on
Abbeville for us, do that too."
I grinned. Chances were I'd have to ditch at the first sight of an Allied
fighter. I looked south, seeing that all 4 Ju88s were getting too far
ahead. As the cockpit was closed, I pushed the throttle forward and roared
down the strip as fast as I could with my extra payload.
At a very dangerous (lack of) altitude, I banked steeply and wheeled south,
pulling the landing gear up as I went, and then I contacted the bombers.
The bomber leader informed me that the Allies were now getting a few planes up
at Abbeville, as well as to the southeast, at Tramecourt and Amiens airbases.
The Ju88s did a quick circle to allow me to catch up, and we all went in toward
Abbeville together, low to the ground. The minute Boulougne's radar tower
called in over the open channel that fighters were up to attack us, I armed my
bomb, banked to check below and behind me, and let fly. The 109 surged up
and ahead, free of the weight, while the explosive tumbled into a field below
and tore up some grass.
Already, we were at the target, and the bombers charged in to unleash their
payloads. I caught sight of a lone P-38 trying to get up. The
bombers, ironically, managed to shoot his engines out and he plummeted to the
ground. A second P-38 was scrambling, but I pulled out of my dive towards
his airstrip as I wasn't sure about the intensity of ground fire. Looking
around, I caught sight of a lone 3 inch emplacement flailing away at our
aircraft, and banked steeply to strafe.
I was lined up well in advance, roaring down at what must have been 200 knots
indicated airspeed. At the earliest possible moment, I let fly with the
machine guns and 20mm cannon, watching my shells hit just short and correcting
the range. In a matter of seconds, it was all over. I caught an
ammunition truck which was re-supplying the position, and the resulting
explosion destroyed the ack ack position. A rather small piece of shrapnel
from what I thought was a shell casing, however, lurched up and tore into the
starboard wing. That would have to be repaired.
The scrambling P-38! My mind jolted back to the battle as I looked behind
to my left. There! He was turning a Ju88 and would gain the
advantage any second now! I turned as tightly as I could and charged down,
closer, closer but not close enough. "Hang on!" I yelled
through the radio to the bomber crew, and after what seemed like an eternity, I
was in position. My guns spat forth all my pent up fears of failure, and
the shells shredded the P-38, whose pilot had not even seen me. It was a
beautiful full deflection shot on a huge, slow target, but it was still a closer
shave than I would have liked.
We were in. The bombers were in place, and all of the large ground fire
was suppressed. The Allies tried to scramble two more P-38s, but these
were torn up both by the bombers and a flight of Focke-Wulf 190A4 fighters,
which had streaked down from the northwest. They had been in the convoy
fight, but off in the distance, I could see the Stukas and 109s landing.
The FWs had enough fuel and ammunition to help out, though. I pulled my
109 into a climb and began moving east to cut off the Allied reinforcements.
Within a few minutes, radar informed me of a P-38 coming out of Tramecourt.
I was on him, and UF showed up as well. However, as I had expended a good
amount of ammo already, we decided that I would engage this 38 and return to
base while UF climbed higher for another bog out of Amiens. I leveled out
at 10,000 feet, and then I caught sight of the P-38 low, ahead of me, at about
7,500. I gunned the engine and closed at 300 knots.
When the P-38 pilot realized that I was going to catch him, he turned to face my
attack head on. Then he entered a steep dive, which would get him plenty
of energy, compress my already zooming 109, and most likely give him the upper
hand in the battle. And so I did not quite match his dive angle.
Sure enough, as he came underneath me, he leveled out and pulled up, attempting
to skewer my plane through the belly. It was easy to haul back on the
stick and demonstrate an Immelmann, but despite my energy and altitude
advantages, somehow the P-38 kept coming up. I fell into a flat turn and
watched as he struggled, keeping the plane's nose up with some Herculean effort,
firing (widely) all the time. Nonetheless, before he inevitably lost the
energy battle, I was forced to pull the nose higher again, and I admired both
the pilot's skill and the plane's performance.
Aha! There! He's finally stalled out below me! I kicked rudder
and swooped down into a low yo-yo, but even now the 38 pilot knew what to do.
He tightened his turn so nicely that I only got a quick snap shot off at his
port boom. I could not pull the lead I needed to blast the engine out, but
I did manage to put several holes in the after parts of the boom anyways.
In the meantime, I thought I noticed something peculiar about this P-38, but I
shrugged it off. He broke into a nice split ess as my bullets struck home,
and I entered a slight climb. Somehow he pulled up under me, again, and I
pulled the nose high into a desperate chandelle, or climbing spiral. The
chandelle worked like a charm in the 109F, because the plane possessed both
unmatched climb and acceleration rates as well as excellent maneuverability at
all altitudes and speeds. Relatively speaking, anyway. My airspeed
indicator fell into the critical range...100...90...80, and the P-38 was luckily
forced to level, unable to hold with me. Another close shave.
I initiated a low right yo-yo, but this time he was ready and split essed well
in advance. We both held the noses down long enough to build up
considerable speed, and when he pulled up into an Immelmann, I yo-yoed and
followed with my own Immelmann. The result was, as he was finishing his
half-loop, I was off to his right, doing the same thing. I hoped to get a
shot at his side upon completing the loop, but his tactics continue to thwart
me! He's come level and is following me up through yet another climb!
My airspeed drops down again as I quickly pull into another desperate chandelle.
150 knots, 120, 100, and somehow the 38 stays with me! It was time for
something new.
I tried a semi-hammerhead, falling left, and his ever-improving aim was thrown
long enough for his aircraft to stall. Saved at the bell again. I
must dive for energy, but all I can afford is a flat-turn; the P-38 is too close
below and too close behind me. If I fall into a yo-yo, he'll get a very
good shot and I'll lose the tiny altitude advantages I still hold. And so
I begin a turn, and he does too! I can't climb anymore, all I can do is
turn tighter and tighter, squeezing every last drop of energy out of my 109.
At the very end, as his tracers claw closer and closer, I cast the die and fall
into a yo-yo. He quickly dives out; he must have been too low on energy
himself. I follow, but he keeps pushing the stick forward, and the 38
enters a beautiful negative G loop. I do my best to nail him in this
situation, but most of my shots are embarrassingly wide. I didn't realize
at the time how desperate I was to do away with such a talented pilot. We
both pull out of the dive at the same time, the PJ pilot rolling before he
climbs, and I frantically realizing what he's doing. I'm compressed a
little bit, I have to keep going in my path, and this aerial genius is forcing
me to give him a shot! "DAMN it!" I shout into my radio
with fury! This guy's reaction timing and brilliance are the best of any
Allied pilot I've ever seen! P-38s are usually such easy kills, but his
defensive tactics are composed of such amazing offensive cleverness that I'm the
one struggling to survive! Survive....survive! I've got one trick
left! Rudder!
My right foot smacks hell out of the rudder assembly, and I blaze directly over
his plane, nose slightly right of his. His loop is still tighter than
mine, and he's got his eyes on me! My speed is slower; the ailerons
respond in full once more, and I begin to enter another desperate chandelle to
the right. I've done all I can to minimize his firing time or throw his
aim completely. Only the best pilot can even get a snap shot off at my
tail now, but something doesn't feel right about this guy. Something is
playing with my mind. All sound goes dead as I wait tensely, eyes ahead
but not really seeing. And then it happened, just like my gut knew it
would.
BLAM! With a sickening thud and a deafening series of pops, I realized
that this Allied virtuoso had decided to turn his plane with mine in the
half-moment he had to think about it. And his lightning fast shot (no pun
intended) had hit home. Every shell in it tore into the rear fuselage area
of my 109. My eyes turned themselves behind to my low right in that same
instant, and I did a double take. The red and yellow flames on the nose,
the angry grins of the anthropomorphic green bullets on the engine cowlings,
those were all I could see. I was frozen in the midst of my chandelle as
the thought registered in my brain. I was fighting the Beethoven of all
P-38 pilots, none other than the "Flamer" himself. Another close
shave, but I'm still alive. The P-38 fell away as piece of my plane ripped
off, and I began flying again, hands sweating in the cool air.
Flying? Oh yes, flying! I pulled back harder on the stick to tighten
my turn, no, not too hard, wait a second... What the...? No
resistance in the stick...! It hit me like the bookcase in the apartment.
Good God, he's shattered my elevator control while I was in a flat turn over an
enemy base!! I frantically moved the stick up and down. Oh, SPHINX!
I flew around in my seat and could see shards of torn cloth and wire flapping in
the breeze behind me. That P-38...the Flamer...he had really done it!
In that split instant of a moment!! Aargg! My elevators' control
lines were out!!
Losing elevator control was really bad, because once the nose is down, it stays
down. And I was over enemy territory in a chandelle. ROLL!! I
jammed the stick left and rolled the plane level so it would hold the air.
My nose was slightly high, so I wasn't dead yet.
I couldn't even begin to care about where the P-38 was, but I knew =ALW= was
continuing his loop and wheeling around after me. He and I were among the
best of buddies in the Pacific, but somehow, he chose to fly for the Allies in
Europe. Maybe he doesn't like me. Or maybe he just doesn't like
109s. Or maybe he doesn't like himself. Yeah, that's it.
FLY!!! I spun around to double check and I saw the P-38 finish his spin
just barely out of gun range. And he was slowly falling behind, as I was
going straight in a climb and he had just turned tightly. Nonetheless...
"HELP! I've lost elevators!" I blurted out over the radio
several times. "I'm outrunning this PJ but I can't evade!"
THINK!! FOCUS!! My desire to survive, kicked in. I was just
about done in, but maybe I could do something. I checked the gauges
frantically. Rate of climb, 4,800 feet per minute? That's way too
steep. Even with WEP on at a lower altitude, ol' Fritz can only do 4,700
feet per minute. Speed? Falling, naturally. Great, all I need
to do is stall and my nose is down. I have got to level, but I don't have
elevators, and stalling intentionally is suicide!
The wings! Of course! I'm only flying because of the wings! An
idea comes to me a split second after I execute it: stick over, bank the
airplane! With its wings no longer riding a magic carpet of air, the nose
falls gently. I level out again with my nose about 3 degrees higher than
the horizon and check behind me once more. The P-38 has fallen further
behind. I can outrun him now. Sure enough, he miraculously turns
away. Now what? My knack for saving hopeless situations kick in, and
I check the compass. 2-5-5 degrees. Dang it...my bases are north of
here. Wait a second...I pull my charts out from under my seat, holding the
stick tightly between my knees, bracing my legs by digging my heels into the
cockpit floor, and bracing the rudder pedals with my toes. I never thought
big feet could be so handy in an airplane... I unfurl the maps.
There, south and west of the Seine River is still German territory. Where
am I now? I look around and sight Abbeville eight kilometers to the
northwest and the Somme River about twenty kilometers to the southwest. I
grab a protractor and scribble my position on the map...perfect. Far off
to the southwest, there's a little stretch of land, just north of LeHavre, where
I can bail out. I stow the maps and check my gauges again. Can I
really get there?
Fuel, 51%. Ammo, 55%...like I need that. Oil is OK, all my emergency
nitrous oxide injection is here, gear indicator does not suggest any damage.
I don't see any fluids leaking from the plane, and no damage on the trailing
edges of the wings. I'm still airworthy. Now if only I could fly.
My eyes scan the altimeter and the rate of climb meter. I've doubled my
altitude from the time of the fight; now I'm nearly 17,000 feet high, and
climbing slowly and steadily. Power! Maybe I can control speed and
climb with the throttle only! If I have the fuel, and if I can control the
plane with just the power lever, maybe I can even land! But I've got to
lose that altitude! I shift the stick to my right hand and pull the
throttle back with my left to the two-thirds mark. I need to keep anywhere
from level to a slight descent so I can make friendly land at LeHavre, and to
land I'll need a descent of up to an absolute maximum of 1000 feet per minute.
Of course, my speed also has to be anywhere from 85 to 120. I wonder if I
can set them both with throttle only.
I clear my head again. Why am I doing landing calculations when
I'm...about 80 miles from the site? Can I even lose altitude fast enough?
The 109 makes a nice glider...I chop the throttle to idle and switch the engine
off. I can always climb again...I hope, and I need to see how she does in
this glide anyhow. Shrugging, I watch the triple bladed propeller come to
a stop, and listen to the wind whoosh by me.
The trusty ol' Messerschmitt settles in a 1,100 foot per minute descent at 108
knots. I drop my seat as low in the cockpit as it will go and sit tensely,
afraid to disturb the precarious balance of the wings and nose. I'm now
over the mouth of the Somme at 13,000 feet. Now for a trek over the water
before I get to that little strip of land. I reach for the radio and flip
to the open Luftwaffe frequency.
"Hey, my elevator controls are out but I'm at a nice glide angle to the
southwest...going to try to set her down near Normandy." One of the
bomber pilots responds with a laugh, "And I thought I was drunk!"
He's got a point, I tell myself...I'm lucky to even be gliding without
elevators. I set the microphone down and turn very carefully around, eying
the damage to the tail. What a hell of a flight.
I check my speed and rate of climb. Still the same.
Altimeter...11,000...10,000, 9,000. Leaning to the side, I peer around the
side of the nose, over the supercharger intake and under a feathered propeller
blade, searching for the strip of land. Another double take--gosh, that's
an AWFULLY small stretch to have to land on with only one possible attempt!
I sit back in my seat again, listening to the bombers' crews, trying to bust
Abbeville but simply lacking the offensive power and numbers to eliminate such a
large field. Radio, yes. I scan a clipboard and locate LeHavre's
tower. I need to let them know of the unique situation they have on their
hands, and where to be ready for an emergency landing. They copy me,
astounded that my luck is still holding, and I sit back yet again.
"Gosh," I thought to myself, "I sure hope those nasty Channel
winds don't show up today."
7,000 feet.
I then got another brilliant idea. Reaching for my radio again, I flipped
to the open channel and called for my buddy =ALW=, who had shot my elevators
out. There's no response after several tries, so I look at my maps again.
Checking my position visually once more, I see that there is just no way I'm
going to be able to land on this tiny strip of grass. I pull the maps out
and look further. If I can fly past this stretch, yes, of course!
Over the waters of the Normandy coast, and then about twenty kilometers of land
in the neck of the Cherbourg Peninsula! I called LeHavre again and
informed them that I wouldn't be dropping in on them today, but get somebody
down at Cherbourg!
3,500 feet.
I called =ALW= on the radio again, and this time he answered. He had not
recognized my 109 by its paint scheme, and when I let him know how close he had
been to flaming me (by now I was well out of range of any aircraft, as LeHavre
radar informed me), he threw out a hail of severe insults, such as, "Ooh,
you booger!" What a guy.
1,000 feet. I jumped to life. I was just past the strip of land that
I was originally going to land on. My hand found the starter switch on its
own, and the Daimler-Benz coughed to life. Down at 900 feet, just north of
LeHavre. I applied power slowly, fearing a sudden burst that might throw
the plane's nose down. Paranoia can work strange sorts of havoc on a human
mind. =ALW= wasn't much help, evilly laughing that I was in for a swim,
but I knew that he half wanted to see me hit the ground safely at the end of
this.
The 109 responded smoothly as always to the power increase, speeding up to 240
knots and climbing at 1,300 feet per minute without changing pitch at all.
My plan was to stay relatively low over the Normandy waters so I would have a
minimal amount of altitude to lose when I actually made landfall over the
peninsula. Then I realized I wasn't sure about the condition of the flaps.
My mind raced ahead as I took a gulp of cola. If I dropped the flaps, it
would lower my nose a tad, and I could not be sure that raising them again would
bring the nose to an acceptable pitch. Adding power wouldn't work this
low, since before the extra downward speed converted itself to lift, I would be
on the ground. Also, to stay level at that lower pitch, I would need to
maintain a speed far too great for landing. And with that, the debate was
over. This would be purely throttle and gear. I checked the
altimeter: 3,000 feet. Time to play around with the throttle and get set
for landing.
I looked around the nose again: I was almost over the ground. I could see
coastal batteries, concrete fortifications, and antiaircraft emplacements all
over Normandy; another fragment of the aptly named Atlantic Wall, our defensive
perimeter. I couldn't admire the rather pretty view of the sea, the shore,
and our powerful guns for long, though, since I had to start the final descent.
I cut the engine again when I could see Bayeux to the left and Cherbourg
Airfield to the right. =ALW= swore once more that I'd be swimming, and I
let loose a hearty "Bah!" I could taste success by now. My
eyes were riveted to the altimeter, and at the 900 foot mark, I brought the Benz
alive.
My hand gently adjusted the throttle until the plane was holding at 166 knots.
The descent rate was only 200 feet per minute, perfect. I was on the final
part of the trip across the water.
My mind drifted back to the ground ahead. The ground ahead...where there
was an entire recon battalion of PSW 231 scout cars! The speedy, agile,
armored vehicles turned and raced inland with admirable power as their
commanders realized I was going to be coming down farther inland. Still,
the dust trails they rose left a nice welcoming pointer for me. I glanced
around the horizon, and then I noticed that two Fiesler Storch recon aircraft
were off to my left, escorting me down.
Now the hard part. I knew that dropping the gear would dip the nose
slightly. Not to a critical level, I was sure, but when one's life is on
the line, one triple-thinks everything. =ALW= once more annoyed me, saying
I should have bailed when I had the chance. I still could bail by turning
the power up, I knew, but then I would destroy an aircraft that I was sure I
could save. I collected my thoughts, so typically spewed all over the
place, and said something nasty about polka music. That took care of
=ALW=, and then I grabbed the gear lever. After an instantaneous
hesitation, I swung it down hard.
The 109 shuddered as the thin legs swung down from their wells in the wing
underside. But before I had time to think, the gear indicator shone green
for all three wheels, my nose was still a degree or two above level, and I was
steady at 112 knots, 200 feet per minute descent. This was it!
I was virtually on top of the armored cars now, and they split to either side of
me with the talent of a well-drilled unit. A huge field loomed up ahead,
and I realized I had narrowly avoided coming down in the bocage of Normandy.
The bocage was a huge network of small, square fields, each field surrounded by
a high mound of dirt. On top of the dirt was extremely thick vegetation.
Landing there was an impossibility.
A final, frantic check. Had I forgotten anything? I kept one eye on
the gauges and the other on the ground. 200 feet! Closer, closer,
gently! The weary Messerschmitt stayed true, however, bringing itself down
for a better landing approach than I could have done with elevators.
50...40...30...20...10...would the gear hold? That shrapnel that had hit
my wing underside!!!
Before I had much time to fret about this question, the wheels had set down on
the gentle slopes of a French field. The plane did not bounce a single
time, and I was awestruck. Despite all my sorties, the plane had made a
softer landing on its own than I ever could have done if I tried. I was
about to kick the brakes when I remembered the damaged tail. I didn't have
elevators to control the tail's descent; braking now would bring it slamming to
the ground. Instead, I just set the throttle to Idle.
The 109 glided over the grassy ground, slowly coming to a halt. It was
really quite a peaceful ride. I wasted no time in bragging to =ALW= and
friends that I was down safe. The plane brought its own wounded tail down
softly, and then I stepped on the brakes, coming to a halt as the recon
battalion vehicles caught up with me.
Unbuckling my straps and switching the engine off, I took another long swig from
the cherry cola bottle, and pulled out the maps. I was astonished. I
had come a hundred miles or more without elevators. I didn't have much
time to say a prayer of thanks before two soldiers rushed up and practically
tore my cockpit open, shouting with glee. I smiled and tripped out of the
cockpit, stumbling down the wing root with shaky legs, and I walked around the
front of my plane.
The fragment which had hit my wing underside was still there, lodged about 18
inches from where my tire had been. It turned out, in fact, to be a small
wooden plank from an ammunition crate, with a British flag painted on it.
Half of the flag was darkened from the ammo truck's explosion, and I pried the
wood loose and pocketed it. It would make a nice souvenir.
Then I walked around to the tail, and I really had to admire "The
Flamer's" job. I still don't know of anybody who could have processed
the aerial chessboard so quickly, and reacted with such brilliance in such a
minute time frame. His shots had punched into the tail at an angle,
entering from just under the starboard stabilizer's joint with the fuselage and
exiting just above the portside stabilizer's joint. The cannon shell had
exploded in the middle, and I was very lucky that the blast didn't rip the
stabilizers off. It might have broken the entire tail if the stabilizers
had been wrenched so they caught the wind, and then I would have really been in
trouble. The frayed control lines for the elevators were hanging out; what
was left of the elevators themselves, namely, a few wooden braces and strips of
cloth covering, had been charred and were also hanging lifelessly. But
then I looked up at the yellow 14 on the fuselage, and the scores of defiant
kill markings still adorning the 109's rudder, and I knew the ol' Messerschmitt
had not seen its last fight yet.
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